Memento Mori
I was laughing at the people on Oprah this morning who are afraid of aging and facing the world without cosmetics. (I only saw a little bit of the show, but I thought it was rather pathetic.) Of course, an hour in the dentist’s chair gave me time for reflection on my lack of charity. And it dawned on me that most people have something that reminds them, uncomfortably, of time and the inevitability of physical death.

This is the time of year that we receive the politely phrased letter from Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke’s Medical Center asking if Mr. v. is still alive and, if so, how’s he doin’? If a scar that goes half-way around his abdomen/back isn’t reminder enough of his rare benign -yet- malignant- tumor -which -was -removed -but -only -with -a- brush- with -death isn’t reminder enough, he gets a form letter every year asking if he is still alive. Although there is something life-affirming in writing back, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

Yesterday morning, while hustling to get breakfast on the table and pull the troops together in time for Mass at 10:30 am, I was humming along with Breakfast with the Beatles. Until I was taken aback by an obscure George Harrison song - all I can remember is his singing about loosing one’s teeth. This was not funny. So there’s my Memento Mori - anything having to do with dental despair.

Both of my parents had not-real-good teeth. So they took care of mine like I was some sort of show pet. Fluoride tablets (to compensate for well water), fluoride treatments, constant brushing, flossing, cleaning. And good health habits. (Until stress caused me to turn to things like Twizzlers. But I’m done with those babies.....) I’ve never smoked. I can only think of two times in my life when I when to sleep without brushing......

There was the stupid summer night during my college years when I came home so inebriated that I fell asleep in my sister’s bed. And she was in it. And when she pushed me out, I didn’t even stop to brush. (All I can say in my defense? At least I wasn’t driving that night.)
And there was the blissful night that Eddie was born in the first floor guest room of our old house and I neglected to ask for someone to bring me my toothbrush.

And still. Time marches on. Decay snuck in around a filling I had put in twenty years ago. I, too, have my fears. Call me, Oprah. We’ll talk.